The Last Vitamin

Margaret stood at the edge of the infinity **pool**, the water stretching toward the horizon like liquid glass. At forty-seven, she'd finally made it—corner office, seven-figure salary, all the trappings of success she'd spent two decades chasing. Yet here she was, staring at her reflection in the water, wondering how the **pyramid** scheme of corporate advancement had left her feeling so hollow at the top.

The conference had been brutal. Three days of motivational speakers and team-building exercises that felt more like indoctrination than inspiration. Her boss, a man who casually dropped **bull**shit phrases like 'synergy' and 'disruptive innovation' between demands for longer hours, had cornered her by the **orange** juice dispenser at breakfast.

'You're not hungry anymore, Margaret,' he'd said, his eyes scanning her diminishing frame. 'Passion. You've lost your passion.'

She hadn't corrected him. Hadn't told him about the **vitamin** D deficiency her doctor had diagnosed, or how the supplements made her nauseous, or how she'd stopped bothering to eat most days. Instead, she'd nodded, sipping her acidic juice while imagining pushing him into the deep end.

Now, as the sun dipped below the resort's artificial mountains, Margaret slipped off her heels. The water was shockingly cold against her skin. She'd never learned to swim properly—another thing she'd sacrificed for quarterly reviews and performance metrics. Her mother had taken her to lessons when she was eight, but Margaret had begged to quit so she could attend extra coding camp instead.

'Getting a head start,' she'd told her mother proudly.

Her mother had died while Margaret was closing her first major deal. The funeral had conflicted with a board meeting. Margaret had sent flowers instead.

The water rose past her waist, then her chest. She'd built her entire life like a pyramid—solid base, ambitious ascent, a glorious peak where she could finally rest. But nobody mentioned how lonely it was at the top. How the air grew thin. How the view, while breathtaking, offered no company but your own regrets.

A man approached the pool's edge—someone from the conference, maybe. He asked if she was okay.

Margaret smiled, something genuine for the first time in years. 'Just learning to float,' she said.

She wouldn't jump. Not tonight. But tomorrow, she decided, she'd book those swimming lessons. And somewhere, somehow, she'd find something worth building that wasn't made of ambition alone.